


swipe right

by defcontwo



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, brief use of homophobic language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 07:19:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9374069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/pseuds/defcontwo
Summary: He’s pretty sure that most of the rookies believe the rumors that he’s some sort of Lord Stanley hockey god reincarnation, only capable of lusting after the Cup. He’s fine with that, for now; it’s easier to work around than being The Gay Teammate.Still. He likes the comfort of plausible deniability.Tinder is easier. Tinder is normal. Lots of hockey players are on Tinder.





	

**Author's Note:**

> <33333 and all of the thanks and adoration to sparklyslug for all of your stellar beta work and support -- you make everything i do so, so much better than i ever thought possible. also, thanks for believing me every time i kept insisting that i was gonna return to this story and finally finish it. it only took about 10 months, nbd.

It's Mel's fault, in the end. This is what he would tell himself, if Kent were in the business of blaming other people for his shit, which he's not, anymore.

But she is the one who gave him the idea in the first place. Entirely by accident, but still.

It’s not like this is the kind of shit he would’ve walked into all on his own. God knows he’s been way too careful for that.

Careful. Huh, well.

Maybe fuck careful, for once.

 

  

 

**ROUND ONE**

Mel hops up next to him on one of the artsy concrete benches that litter the outside of the T-Mobile Arena, snapping her gum and digging out her phone.

"Bro, I've been getting the weirdest fucking matches on Tinder lately," she says. She's head to toe in Aces merch because they’re all required to be, and the ice girls are no exception, but Kent's pretty sure Mel's pushing it in a track jacket and sweatpants in this heat. He's sweating just looking at her.

"Tinder? Mel, really?" Kent says. His pre-game iced coffee perspires in his hands, dripping water all over his shorts. He kind of wants to check his phone, but then he’d just get it all wet, and anyways, there’s no one he really needs to hear from right this second. "Sounds like a black hole of weirdos."

Mel shrugs. "I don't know, it's fun, I guess. Low pressure, you feel me?"

Kent yawns, and feels the bones in his jaw crack. "That much dating sounds fucking exhausting." He huffs, and smooths away the bitter twist to his lips that's almost a reflex now. "Not that I'd know, I guess."

Mel laughs, but elbows him in the side anyways, a small touch of solidarity. "Please, I barely ever meet up with girls from Tinder. I like the flirting. You know, some chit chat, some saucy pictures. It's not a bad time, if you stumble into someone nice."

"Huh," Kent says, and tells himself not to mull this over later. It already sounds like a bad idea. "No shit."

"I'm not really feeling it, you know, since Bridget broke up with me and fucked off back to Tucson," Mel says, a little too fast, like she always does whenever Bridget comes up, like if the words come out quick enough, the band-aid gets ripped off faster. "But it's like, you know. Not a totally shitty way to figure out how to be single again."

"But a lotta weird ones lately?"

Mel rolls her eyes. "It's Vegas. It's not like I can be surprised."

It's three hours until puck drop and there's nothing but nervous energy thrumming through his veins, a fighting impulse between taking it easy and running so far and so fast in any direction that no one can catch him. He’s due in for media in half an hour and Mel’s going to be spending the rest of the night in booty shorts, so they’re soaking up as much heat as possible before they absolutely  _have_ to enter the cool, air conditioned arena.

The playoffs suck this year. They’re only five games into their first series, and somehow, it already feels so much shittier than last year. Christ, but he hates the Ducks.

Kent tries to imagine what Corey Perry's Tinder profile would look like, and barely stifles a laugh. "So, what kind of weird are we talking? Any magicians?" Kent says, shaking his head to get rid of any mental images that connect Corey Perry to sex because yeah, that’s just gross.

"Please," Mel deadpans. "It's been three magicians a week for the past three weeks."

"Sucks, bro," Kent says, with a wince. "I'm telling you, that shit sounds like too much effort."

Mel snaps her gum, once, twice, and does a little shimmy in her seat. She's nervous, too. Game day during the playoffs, man. That shit is contagious. "Don't knock it until you try it, hotshot."

 

 

\\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_

 

Jeff’s OT goal puts them into the second round and the whole team’s gone out to celebrate; he should be with them. Usually, he would be.

But on the other side of the country, the Falconers are making their first real run for the Cup after sweeping the Rangers, and all anyone can think about is, “what if?”

What if it’s Falconers versus Aces. What if it’s Zimmermann versus Parson, and a chance to finally see who really deserved that number one draft spot. Nevermind Kent’s eight years in the NHL, and six of them with that bright white C on his sweater. Nevermind every record he’s broken, nevermind that he’s lifted that fucking Cup over his head twice over already.

It’ll be their names all done up in big block letters, blue and red and red and blue, a showdown for the ages, and yeah, nevermind the other thing. Nevermind the part where they used to be best friends -- the inseparable Parse-and-Zimms, always back-to-back or hip-to-hip, all while posing for magazines or sitting for interviews, or leaning into each other on their skates at 5 AM, loose-limbed and crusty-eyed, as they waited for their morning coffee to kick in.

Nevermind that they always started those mornings the same way -- back when the two of them used to wake up curled into each other in the same twin-size bed, with Kent’s leg thrown over Jack’s hip, and his nose smushed into the soft cotton fabric of Jack’s favorite Habs shirt. Breathing in, and out, to the steady beat of Jack’s heart.

Kent’s spent years and years wondering what this day might look like, and now that it’s finally come, he kind of wishes he could give it back and just sleep for a fucking year.

He begs off from the party early; it’s easy enough, what with how his bad shoulder got checked into the boards, hard, with thirty seconds left to go in the second period. It’s a good enough excuse as any, and shit, it’s not even really a lie.

Kent heaves a groan as he flops down into the black leather of his couch, and gingerly places an ice pack to his shoulder. It’s too much effort to navigate to his Netflix account, so he idly flicks to the first thing that doesn’t look horrible, which turns out to be old re-runs of The New Adventures of Lois and Clark. Kent huffs, and leans back further into the couch cushions. His Nana loves this show, so it could be worse.

He can’t stop thinking about what Mel said. About dating apps and how you don’t have to go and meet anyone -- that it’s fun just to flirt, to get yourself out there, without getting _yourself_ out there. How it’s not a bad way to figure out how to be single, again.

And sure, Kent’s maybe about seven years too late for that train, but he wants -- well, okay, he doesn’t know shit about what he wants, really.

But he knows this: He knows that he doesn’t want to waste the rest of his life waiting for something that will never happen. Waiting for something that Kent doesn’t even want to happen, anymore, not now, when he can’t even imagine what he’d do with it if he got it.

Kent takes a deep breath, like he’s steeling himself for a faceoff, and opens up the search feature for apps on his iPhone.

Grindr is the obvious option and sure, like -- he’s twenty-six years old, he’s human, he’s thought about it, but then he thinks about what might happen if a teammate grabs his phone and starts flipping through it and finds _that_ , and it’s good as getting a bucket of cold water emptied out over his head.

Which, okay. It’s not like the team doesn’t know. It’s a weird space that he lives in -- an open secret that everyone knows, but no one talks about, because that’s exactly the way Kent prefers it.

He’s pretty sure that most of the rookies believe the rumors that he’s some sort of Lord Stanley hockey god reincarnation, only capable of lusting after the Cup. He’s fine with that, for now; it’s easier to work around than being The Gay Teammate.

Still. He likes the comfort of plausible deniability. Tinder is easier. Tinder is normal. Lots of hockey players are on Tinder.

So he creates a profile using an old photo that his mother took of him a couple of years ago, back when they were still talking. In it, he's standing and overlooking the beach from a bluff near La Jolla. It's taken from behind; the only distinguishing feature a backwards Clippers cap and the broadness of his shoulders, built up from the pre-season training camp he'd just come from.

With an eye on the TV, Kent calls himself "Clark," because no matter which way you slice it, that's just hilarious, and says that he's a private guy but he loves to talk basketball, or Britney Spears, if that's what you're into.

Kent presses save, puts his phone on silent, and drifts off to sleep.

 

 

\\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_

 

Kent blinks awake to a buzzing somewhere to the left of his head, and his throw blanket twisted underneath him, functionally useless as a blanket.

Kent groans, and grabs at where he stuck his phone the night before, just below his pillow on the couch, and tries to tug at the blanket, lifting it out from underneath his legs.

Kent clicks at the power button, and -- holy shit. That's a lot of notifications.

Scratch that. He's gonna need coffee for this.

Ten minutes, a power bar and a whole pot of coffee brewed later, Kent slumps against his kitchen counter and starts scrolling through his notifications.

There's a couple of obvious weirdos, right off the bat. Good to know that the Vegas Magician Population is so welcoming to all sexualities. Kent swipes left, and makes a mental note to tell Mel about that later.

There's at least ten messages asking if he wants to meet up that Kent vetoes immediately.

Which leaves -- okay, that's not bad. That's manageable. There's a dick pic from a guy named Ben which, okay, what the hell? He's only been using this thing for twelve hours and he's only been conscious for exactly one of those hours.

A warm flush creeps up the back of Kent's neck. Christ, but it's been _so_ long.

Kent looks up, but the only other living thing in this room is a potted cactus. Of course. What did he expect? For the Aces GM to come bursting in and snatch the phone out of his hand?

Kent clears his throat. He’s on the edge, here; on the edge of letting himself feel ridiculous, on the edge of talking himself out of this whole thing in the first place, and deleting his profile and deleting the app, and going back to the way things have always been.

But here’s the thing: he’s so fucking tired of doing that.

Kent thumbs open one of the remaining messages and starts typing.

 

 

 

**ROUND TWO**

The back and forth between Vegas and Nashville is brutal, and so’s the two-hour period when Kent realizes that he forgot his phone charger and he can’t sneak away from the team to buy a new one. His phone all but buzzes right off his hotel room bedside table when he finally gets it back on, and Kent switches all of his notifications to silent from then on.

The messages start to build up in Kent’s inbox, and sure, most of them are pretty much terrifying, but he doesn’t actually want to be ignoring them.

But it’s taking all of his waking energy and then some to figure out how to get the puck past Subban. Kent plays hockey, and he eats, he sleeps, and then he wakes up to do it all over again. He falls asleep three nights in a row surrounded by white boards, covered in new plays drawn up by the assistant GM Cooper in bright red marker. Wakes up with his face stuck to one of the white boards, the red ink pressed into the skin of his cheek, so Kent re-draws the play, and makes it better.

They make the series 3-2 that night, and Kent lets out a victory yowl as his stick snakes around Subban’s right foot, sending the puck straight past Rinne into the net.

An embarrassingly thin beard starts to shade in along the edges of his jaw, and it’s a little bit better than last year’s, so Kent snaps a selfie and throws it up on his Instagram, challenging Logan Couture to do better.

Kent gets a couple more dick pics from that same guy, Ben, and ignores every last one of them.

Gets a text five minutes after the buzzer sounds for their fourth Western Conference final in franchise history that just says, “good luck against the Stars. Best, Jack.”

He ignores that too.

 

 

\\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_

 

"If you're texting your dick ex boyfriend right now, I'm taking that phone right out of your hands and throwing it into the toilet."

Kent looks up from where he's sprawled on the floor of the Aces locker room, wet hair curling against his neck and feet kicked up on the bench, and scowls. "Thanks, Mel. Say that a little louder, why don't you?"

They’ve still got a couple of days until the next series starts so the media presence isn’t too heavy and he watched all of the beat reporters clear out already after practice, but still.

He’s gotten away with a lot by being as careful as he is, by being as shut in as he is -- gotten away with never bringing dates to bars or benefits or family skate, gotten away with the leaked video of Britney Spears karaoke that went viral, and lately, he’s gotten away with talking with Mel a whole lot about shit that he’s never, ever really talked about before. Kent knows one of these days, that luck will run out on him. Also knows that it wears at the edges, being so fucking careful all of the time. He doesn’t want to do it anymore but he doesn’t exactly know how to stop, either.

But during the middle of playoffs via the Las Vegas Sun isn’t exactly how Kent wants to do _that_.

"That wasn't a no, bro," Mel says, but she lowers her voice anyways, and drops down onto the floor next to him.

Someone will throw a shit fit if they catch her in here, in a workout bra and booty shorts and precious little else. There are rules against that kind of thing; no one wants to see one of the ice girls get knocked up by a franchise star.

But it's not like this is the first time they've broken this rule. Anyways, it doesn’t matter. It’s not like either of them are going to all of a sudden come down with a surprise case of heterosexuality.

Kent shoves at her arm. "You know, some of us shower after practice."

Mel leans back into the wooden bench, crossing her arms over her head. "Puh-lease. I am gracing this locker room with my superior girl sweat."

Kent wrinkles his nose. "Gross, bro." Taps his phone against his palm once, twice, and blows out a breath. He was always going to tell her and yet somehow, in the moment, the words stick in the back of his throat.

They've only really been friends about a year, now. And before that, well. Before that, Kent didn’t talk to anyone about this. He didn’t talk about it, period.

Kent's still not exactly used to it, still finds the words sticking in the back of his throat. So sue him.

"And I'm not. It's not, uh. You know who. I...uh, decided to take you up on that advice. About Tinder."

Mel whistles, low. "Look at you. As...not as yourself, right?"

Kent shrugs. "A version of myself, I guess." He doesn't exactly feel great about lying to these guys, but the opposite would mean...the opposite would mean turning his whole life inside out, and shaking out the contents, and having to try to figure out what's left when everything settles.

The opposite is fucking terrifying.

"Hey," Mel says gently, nudging him lightly in the side. "That's okay. That's a lot to ask of yourself."

"Yeah," Kent says, blowing out a breath. "Thanks."

"Besides," Mel says, "what guy wouldn't be honored to be Catfished by NHL star Kent Parson?"

Kent lets his head bang backwards into the hardwood, but lets out a low, muffled laugh anyways. "Fuck you."

"So, how'd it go? Any good contenders?" Mel says, leaning up into his locker to snag his almost-empty bottle of Gatorade and take a sip. "Dick pics?"

Kent clears his throat, and hates that the tips of his ears turn bright red when he's embarrassed. "A few."

Mel lets out a cackle. "Alright, now that's what I'm talking about. I don't get any of that, I always kinda wondered if it really happens."

"Oh, it _happens_ ," Kent says. "I’ve gotten like, five from some guy named Ben with a dick piercing. Just, hello. Right in my face, right there on my phone."

"Shut the fuck up." Mel drains the Gatorade, and then tosses the bottle across the room, just missing the lip of the trash can. And then she goes and reaches back into his locker to grab another one, because Mel is apparently determined to drink him out of house and home in every part of his life. "Shit -- so, uh. Was that.....uhhhhh...."

"Nope," Kent says, maybe a little too fast, and he can only hope to God that his ears aren’t actually blushing, and giving him away. "Piercings? That's not. I'm not ready for _that_ yet."

Mel laughs. "Fair enough, bro. Any good ones, then?"

Early this morning, Kent got a message from a guy named Luke. A Warriors fan, judging by the crack he made at Kent's Clippers hat.

They've been texting about basketball all day, off and on, trading barbs and NBA finals predictions.

It's...nice. There’s something comfortable and familiar about it -- it doesn’t make him feel the way he does whenever he gets a message asking to meet up, or asking him out for dinner. Those feel like getting tossed into the deep end of the pool, and trying to figure out how to swim all at the same time.

So far, talking to this guy is easy. And Kent likes easy. There’s not enough shit in his life that’s easy.

Kent shrugs, again, and pockets his phone in his exercise shorts. "Maybe."

Mel raises both eyebrows. “Maybe? Am I gonna get any more than that?”

Kent shoots her a sideways look, and clears his throat. “I don’t know. You apply for that Assistant Team Manager position yet?”

“Fuck off,” Mel says, good-naturedly, but she twists the cap back onto the Gatorade bottle a little harder than usual, so Kent’s guessing that one’s a no.

The Assistant Team Manager position has been a floating headache ever since Old Jimbo had to retire halfway through the season on account of his fucked up heart -- Cooper’s nephew is filling in as a temp until the season ends and Kent’s pretty sure that if Coop didn’t love his sister so much, that nephew would’ve been kicked on his ass out of the door by now.

And Mel -- Mel tends bar whenever she’s not with the Aces, and she manages the ice girls’ budget because no one else cares enough to do it, and she’s smart. Smarter than Kent, anyways, but he’s not sure if that means all that much.

She could do it. She’d kick ass at it, and Kent doesn’t get what the big fucking deal is, with her whole hangup about applying. He knows she’s had a print-out of the application folded up inside of her bag for the past month. “Mel -- “

“Not everyone has to make something of themselves, you know,” Mel says, quietly. “Sometimes it’s enough to just get by.”

“I don’t -- “

“Tell you what,” Mel interrupts, before Kent can even figure out where that sentence was supposed to end up. “I apply for that job, you gotta show me at least one dick pic.”

“What?” Kent says, laughing. He reaches over, and takes the Gatorade bottle out of her hands, unscrewing it to take a sip. “Fuck you, no. Which one?”

“Which one?” Mel says, with mock surprise. “Which one, he asks. Well, excuse me, mister. I’m not you. I’m just a simple lesbian. I don’t have dick pics flying in my face all day long. Fuck you, which one. The pierced one, duh. Anything else is just….amateur hour.”

Kent snorts into the Gatorade bottle, and nearly inhales a mouthful of purple liquid down the wrong pipe. “Yeah, alright.”

Mel holds out her hand, with the look of a woman who knows that she’s making a deal that she’ll probably never have to bother holding up her end on. “Dicks for health benefits, baby.”

Kent rolls his eyes, and takes her hand. “You’re such a fucking weirdo. But you know, you’re not seeing shit until I’ve got real proof.”

Mel snatches back the Gatorade bottle, only to turn right around and tap him on the head with it. “I’ll forward you the submission email myself, hot shot.”

 

 

 

**WESTERN CONFERENCE FINALS**

The Stars win with a slick goal from Seguin in the third to make the series 2-2, and now there's no quick and easy end to pull the trigger on the Conference Finals. It's not like Kent wanted to get swept but fuck if he couldn't have stood to win this one faster.

The locker room is quiet after, as quiet as it can get, anyways, which is why it rings out loud and clear when Mads, who served more penalty minutes than any of the rest of them combined, mutters under his breath, "the ref's a faggot anyways."

Kent's fingers pause, for a beat, and then straight away resume tying the shoelaces on his Vans, even as the rest of him goes deathly still. "Hey," Kent says, voice gone flat, a white hot rage rising inside of him that he's sure is clear as day in the glare he's leveling right at Mads and yeah, everyone heard that too. “You wanna try looking me in the eye when you say that, huh?”

Unlike the rest of them, Mads is still in his gear, and dripping sweat and a little bit of blood from a cut on his forehead; Cooper held him back, clipboard in hand, and everyone knows what it means when Coop glares at you like that. It means you’re about to get reamed out like you’ve never been reamed out before.

Kent would almost feel sorry for the guy, if he didn’t want to punch Mads in the teeth so much.

Kent swallows hard, but keeps on staring. Mads stares back, defiant, front teeth working around the edges of his mouth guard, before he spits it straight to the floor of the locker room, where it falls with a dull thud.

“Yo, Mads, you kiss your girlfriend with that foul-ass mouth of yours?” Jeff calls out, and it’s a low, low blow because Mads caught his girlfriend cheating on him a couple of months ago, and Yarpov had to all but carry him off the floor of the Bellagio at 4 AM afterwards. Now, Yarpov gives Jeff a measured warning glance, but Yarpov spends a lot of time cleaning up after Mads’s messes. Maybe it’s about time he give it a rest.

Jeff just shrugs, unconcerned.

Keeley steps between Jeff and Mads, blocking Kent’s line of vision, and holds out a hand with the same steady, even confidence that makes him a great backup goalie. “C’mon, bro. Time to go blast the memory of that last period right out of our brains, eh?”

Mads makes a low, angry sound like he’s still got more to say, but whatever it is, Kent doesn’t want to hear it. Kent gets up, and slams the the door to the locker room shut behind him.

 

 

\\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_

 

The good thing about losing in Dallas is at least they play here often enough that they all know a good bar or two to run off to once the last reporter packs up their mic, and there aren’t any more boring, canned “we’ll do better next time’s” to try and force out with a straight face.

The other good thing about losing in Dallas is, outside of the American Airlines Center, no one gives a shit about hockey. No one pays much attention to a group of fifteen-odd guys streaming into a nightclub on a Saturday night and immediately making a bee-line for the bar.

So, Keeley picks a place, and Jeff sends the rookies packing upstairs with vague promises about hotel mini bar booze, and bringing them back a forty each that Kent definitely isn’t gonna let him follow through on until their season is done.

And if Kent grabs a beer and then bails to a corner immediately, well. It’s not like he doesn’t already have a reputation for really, really fucking hating it when they lose.

Because sure, he’s hated just about every second of this season’s playoffs so far -- but he’s also loved every second of it just as much. That’s just how it goes; playoffs is everything that hockey is, fine-tuned and turned all the way up, and hell if Kent doesn’t live for this time of year.

Forget Christmas. The NHL post-season is the time of year when suddenly, anything goes and everything seems possible.

Kent flops down into a booth in the back and unlocks his phone, opening up the last message that came in on Tinder.

 

> _[11:17 PM Ben] so you ever gonna send me back a dick pic or what_

 Kent hunches back into the booth, propping up both feet on the plush seat, and taking a long pull from his beer.

 

>   _[11:19 PM Clark] or wht_
> 
> _[11:20 PM Clark] i like a lil mystery, pal, keeps the boys guessing_
> 
> _[11:23 PM Ben] I'm guessing you're a grade A tease, Clark_

Kent snorts, and takes another sip of his beer.

 

> _[11:27 PM Clark] u say that like its a bad thing_
> 
> _[11:28 PM Ben] It's not ;)_  

Kent rolls his eyes, and drops his phone into the table, screen first. Whatever, Ben.

Kent hears someone walk up to his booth long before they sit a drink down on the table with a firm clunk. But he's got a good idea who it is, so he waits a beat or two, and then looks up.

Mads is looming over the table, shoulders hunched in just enough that he manages to look pretty small for a guy who's six foot six. He's just placed a mixed drink on the edge of the table, just out of Kent's reach. "Uh...vodka tonic, right?"

"With a lime, yeah," Kent says.

There's an edge to his voice, but he's not gonna try to mask it. He's still feeling a little like he could knock out the rest of Mads's remaining teeth and not feel too bad about it.

"Cool," Mads says. "You want it?"

Kent runs one finger over the edge of his eyebrow, and lets out a small, annoyed sigh.

He wasn't really feeling hard alcohol tonight and actually, an apology wouldn't be the worst fucking thing in the world. But he knows better than that. Would never do anything quite so shit-stupid as to expect or demand one. This is the only white flag he'll get here. He's the captain; he has to take it.

Kent nods, and Mads pushes the glass closer to him, within reach. "Have a good night, Parser."

"You too, Mads."

Mads slinks away, and Kent sighs, taking a huge sip of the vodka tonic that Mads left behind. Might as well, while it’s just sitting there.

On the table, his phone buzzes, and Kent lets out a huff.

“Okay, fine, Ben, what weirdo piercing do you have for me this time?”

Except it’s not Ben, it’s Luke. Luke, the guy who likes basketball, who got on Kent’s case for being a Clippers fan.

“Huh,” Kent says, and swipes open his phone.

 

> _[11:46 PM Luke] Alright, you’re on a deserted island. You’re trying to make it off. You can pick one basketball team in the world to be on your side to help you get to safety. Who do you choose?_
> 
> _[11:48 PM Clark] uconn women’s, duh_
> 
> _[11:49 PM Luke] THAT’S CHEATING_
> 
> _[11:49 PM Luke] Nah, but good answer though. Probably like, the only answer that would do you any good._
> 
> _[11:50 PM Clark] i’m making it off that island alive, man_
> 
> _[11:51 PM Clark] who did you choose?_
> 
> _[11:55 PM Luke] I’m a victim of loyalty. It’s gotta be the Warriors._
> 
> _[11:56 PM Clark] [poop emoji]_
> 
> _[11:57 PM Luke] You’re just jealous._

 Kent laughs, sharp and loud, and then raises his head, just to make sure no one saw or heard him, but it’s a loud, packed bar, and there’s not a single person so much as looking his way.

 

> _[11:59 PM Clark] thats kindergarten logic bro_
> 
> _[12:01 AM Luke] I know you can’t really see my face in my picture but is this the part of the conversation where I get to sneakily work in that I bear a striking resemblance to the finest point guard of our times_
> 
> _[12:03 AM Clark] holy shit, you look like chris paul ? ? ?_
> 
> _[12:06 AM Luke] I can’t believe I’m still talking to you_
> 
> _[12:06 AM Clark] [poop emoji] [basketball emoji] [poop emoji]_
> 
> _[12:06 AM Luke] I don’t do the Steph Curry facial hair tho._
> 
> _[12:08 AM Clark] thank god._
> 
> _[12:10 AM Clark] i don’t think i cld live w/ myself if i gt a dick pic from a guy w/ a weirdo chin beard_
> 
> _[12:16 AM Luke] ahaha christ. So this is an awwwwkward swing in topic, but uh….I’m probably going to be pretty disappointing on that front. I’m starting a big big internship next week and if I somehow lose it over dick pix I will literally never forgive myself_

Kent swings his feet down from the plush bench seating, and sets his drink down on the table with a thunk. He did wonder, a little. Luke’s profile is a lot more private than any of the others that Kent’s run into -- his photo is just the side of his face, mostly obscured by a blue and yellow hoodie and the nose of the dog that he’s hugging in it. It was kind of a relief, actually, not to get smacked in the face with too much info too fast.

And Kent can’t pretend that it hasn’t occurred to him that a guy who values his own privacy is a hell of a lot more likely to be chill with respecting Kent’s. Maybe it’s not so romantic but this is his life, here. He has to be realistic. 

 

> _[12:20 AM Clark] haha well i wldnt want 2 get in the way of that. congrats on the internship, btw._
> 
> _[12:22 AM Luke] Thanks! Hey, did anyone ever tell you that you text like a 12 year old?_
> 
> _[12:23 AM Clark] i didn’t go 2 college :P_
> 
> _[12: 24 AM Luke] Neither did my old man but he still uses semi-colons and everything in text_
> 
> _[12:25 AM Clark] buddy i don’t even know what that is_

Kent shifts, suddenly uncomfortable. It’s not something that he comes up against, much. The fact that he’s lived a life that’s very, very different from most guys his age. The NHL is a whole other world and it’s the only thing he’s ever known -- it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to know.

His phone pings with a message.

 

> _[12:28 AM Luke] Haha that’s okay, neither do most of the undergrads whose papers I grade. Man, I have read some bad, bad essays in my day._  

Kent lets out a breath.

 

>   _[12:30 AM Clark] yeah? tell me abt them_

 

 

\\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_

 

 

Mads sits with his ass firmly super-glued to the bench for all of Game 5, Cooper’s orders, with all six foot six inches of him radiating annoyance and a general air of pissy bullshit.

But the Aces bag game five with ease -- it’s a 3-1 victory at the buzzer and even though Kent only got one assist the whole game, that doesn’t stop the small, vicious smile that sneaks across his face as he skates up to the bench at the end of it, and tosses his stick at Mads’ feet.

They’re so close to the final that Kent can taste the metallic tang in the back of his throat of champagne when it’s just been poured out of a silver-and-nickel cup.

Last year, he let a lot of shit get to him. Last year, Jeff was out with an injury and Yarpov was trying to pretend like the summer flu wasn’t fucking killing him, and getting everyone else sick in the process.

They barely squeaked out a win in their division -- it was the worst playoffs run for the Aces since Kent’s rookie season and as soon as it was over, Kent hopped on a plane and slunk on out to his off-season house in Manhattan Beach, turning all notifications for his phone off in the process.

Last year was fucking embarrassing.

And sure, so the Aces are still a little bumpy this year -- the new backline isn’t clicking as well as Kent would like them to, and Mickey’s getting a little too hungry with his puck-time, so he doesn’t pass as much as he’s supposed to.

But they’re better. They can do it. Kent’s pretty fucking sure that they can do it.

One more game, and then they’re in the final.

 

 

\\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_

 

 

> _[10:01 AM Luke] Ok, I have another question for you._
> 
> _[10:12 AM Clark] u ask a lotta questions, man_
> 
> _[10:15 AM Luke] Haha I just got out of a lecture so I’m still in teaching mode. I can’t help it. It’s a good one, though, I promise. Trust me?_
> 
> _[10:16 AM Clark] sure_
> 
> _[10:16 AM Clark] a lil buttering up wldnt hurt tho_
> 
> _[10:17 AM Luke] Ok, Clark with the really great shoulders, I have another question for you._
> 
> _[10:19 AM Clark] now that’s more like it. ok shoot._
> 
> _[10:20 AM Luke] What’s your favorite thing to do to like, relax or unwind or whatever, where whenever you do it, you’re just like, wow, man, I am really fucking gay. This is a very gay thing to do._
> 
> _[10:21 AM Luke] Not in a bad way, or anything. Just, you know, in a “straight boys could never get over themselves enough to realize how great this is” kind of way._
> 
> _[10:22 AM Clark] haha um_
> 
> _[10:22 AM Clark] idk if i have anything_
> 
> _[10:23 AM Clark] wait, ok. u know romeo and juliet? the movie, the one with leo?_
> 
> _[10:24 AM Luke] Yeah!_
> 
> _[10:24 AM Clark] that’s my go-to “drink a bottle of wine + cry” movie._
> 
> _[10:24 AM Clark] …...not that i….do that a lot……..uh. seriously. like, this is an once a year thing, i promise._
> 
> _[10:26 AM Luke] I 100% do not believe you at all but that’s chill. That movie’s got a great soundtrack. Des’ree, man. Speaks to my soul._
> 
> _[10:27 AM Clark] ugh, right_
> 
> _[10:27 AM Clark] also fuck off i am totally telling the truth. what’s yours?_
> 
> _[10:28 AM Luke] Bath bombs. Don’t even laugh, I’m not even a little bit sorry. I get the ones from Lush. My studio in Vegas is mostly shitty as fuck but it’s got a bathtub. One time I was in the elevator at school with a little old white lady and I kept catching her staring at me, all “does that black man smell like rose petals???”_
> 
> _And you’re damn right, I smelled like rose petals all day._
> 
> _[10:30 AM Clark] …….i dont even know where 2 start_
> 
> _[10:31 AM Luke] So, do you cry when they kiss in the pool or at the end, when they die?_
> 
> _[10:32 AM Clark] wow rude_
> 
> _[10:34 AM Clark] ………..both_
> 
> _[10:35 AM Luke] I KNEW IT_

\\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_

 

 

So, Luke is a grad student in political science at UNLV; he’s from Oakland and he’s got two sisters and one older brother, and one pitt mix, and he’s got some sort of internship coming up that’s going to take him far away from Las Vegas, far from Kent and any temptation to lose his fucking mind and suggest that they meet.

And so Kent metes out half-truths in return -- says that he’s from SoCal, says that he teaches kids how to play sports which he does, sometimes, when the Aces PR team arranges a meet-up day with the local peewee hockey teams.

Mostly, they talk about nothing important at all. Basketball and jokes and yeah, some harmless flirting that gives Kent that dizzy feeling in the pit of his stomach, like he’s about to jump off a cliff or push off from a tree swing.

But it’s harmless, just like Mel said. He already knows it can’t go anywhere.

 

\\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_

 

 

 

> _[5:46 PM Luke] Serious question how the hell are you supposed to pack suits and who allows professional wear during the summer_
> 
> _[5:50 PM Clark] lol they have special garment bags for that_
> 
> _[5:52 PM Luke] For suits?? Wtf. That sounds like too much effort. I'm gonna chance it in my duffle._
> 
> _[5:53 PM Clark] ur suits are gonna wrinkle FYI_
> 
> _[5:54 PM Clark] where u headed_
> 
> _[5:56 PM Luke] Back to Oakland. My internship's in San Francisco but it's easier if I just live at home with my parents for the two months. Cheaper too._
> 
> _[5:59 PM Luke] Remind me of that when my parents are driving me nuts btw. Upside: I’ll get to chill with my dog a bunch._
> 
> _[6:01 PM Clark] hahahaha ok. i'll make a note, set an alarm on my phone or smthing, just in case._
> 
> _[6:01 PM Clark] 2 months tho.....wow. that’s a long time 2 be back with your parents._
> 
> _[6:05 PM Luke] Yeah hahaha tell me about it. Nah, it’s okay. They’re good people, I just got used to my independence is all. It’ll be an adjustment._
> 
> _[6:06 PM Luke] Is this…..okay? That, you know. I won’t be back in Vegas until August. That we're just talking, instead of making date plans or whatever._
> 
> _[6:07 PM Clark] nah it's chill....work is crazy busy 4 me rn, i'd make a shitty date. fall asleep in the middle of dinner or whatever._
> 
> _[6:08 PM Luke] Face plant right in the middle of your bowl of pasta._
> 
> _[6:09 PM Clark] exactly. super embarrassing and not at all suave. u would probably never call me 4 a second date. it's better this way._
> 
> _[6:10 PM Clark] so, italian food, huh?_
> 
> _[6:12 PM Luke] What can I say. I'm a classy guy._

 

 

 \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_

 

 

Fips is the one to score the winning goal that puts them into the finals -- Fips, the eighteen-year-old rookie from Quebec City, who’s shy and unassuming and passes the puck too often when he should just go for it and take a shot. Of all fucking people, Fips scores to put the Aces up 5-4 against the Stars in the final seconds of game six.

Hockey really is the craziest fucking sport in the world.

It’s weird, how this feels a little like deja vu. Keeley and Jeff crushing him into the boards in celebration. The rookies all piling out onto the ice to lift Fips onto their shoulders. In a couple of minutes, they’ll all stand awkwardly hovering around the Campbell Bowl, rookies carefully hushing and re-arranging their friends so no one fucks it up. They’ll have their picture taken and then there’ll be media for hours, and then, tired and sweating but thrilled, they’ll go home and sleep like the dead.

Kent shakes his head, but the moment sticks with him, a tickle in the back of his mind that he can’t get rid of. He wants something different. He wants something to be different, about all of this, and he doesn’t have a fucking clue what that something different should be.

Kent digs his phone out of his locker, later, and opens up his conversation with Luke. Wonders what would happen if he blew his cover and texted, “hey, I just made the Stanley Cup Finals for the third fucking time, how about that?”

Kent wipes the condensation that dripped from his wet hair to his screen off on the side of his pants, and sighs, pocketing his phone.

He can’t say that. Kent blows out a breath, and then digs his phone out of his pocket.

 

> _[11:31 PM Clark] hey uh wld it be cool if i call u in abt 20 mins?_
> 
> _[11:33 PM Luke] Is it okay to admit that I’ve been waiting for weeks for one of us to crack and ask that question?_
> 
> _[11:34 PM Luke] So, yeah. It’s definitely cool._

 

 

\\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_

 

Kent’s already hitting the call button on his phone as he’s closing the door to his apartment firmly shut, and dropping his bag to the floor.

Luke picks up on the second ring, and Kent’s stomach drops all the way down to his feet. “Hey…..Clark?”

Kent slumps back into his front door. Shit. Luke has a really, really nice voice. “Hey. How’s it going?”

Luke lets out a sigh, and it echoes over the phone, and goes straight to Kent’s head because that couldn’t be anything but a sigh of relief. “Oh, you know. Just got home from the first day of my internship and I’m dead tired but now I’m talking to this hot guy that I’m really into for the first time, so I think I’ll be okay.”

Kent ducks his head. Christ, he’s so glad there’s no one around to see him right now. “Hey, now. You don’t even know I’m hot. I mean, I am hot. But you don’t know that. I could be horribly disfigured, for all you know.”

Luke laughs. “You’ve got that vibe. The too hella attractive for his own good white boy frat bro vibe.”

"Excuse me,” Kent squawks, pushing off from the door. “Does your grad school know what a shitty memory you have?”

“You don’t need to go to college to have the frat boy vibe,” Luke teases. “And hey, I never said I wasn’t into it.”

“Well, as long as you’re into it,” Kent says. He coughs, and stalls. He has no idea where to go from here. He had no fucking plan whatsoever.

“Sooooo,” Luke says, all low and drawn out, and then laughs again. Kent likes that; he likes that Luke keeps laughing. He figures as long as he keeps Luke laughing, they’ll muddle through whatever the hell this is. “Okay, so I guess this is a little weird. Uh. How was your day? Lots of screaming children?”

“Uh….yeah, like you wouldn’t believe,” Kent says, because it’s not a lie, exactly. It’s not the truth, either, and that’s another thing that he pushes down, and away, because there’s nothing he can do about the moral shadiness of this whole situation now. He’s already in it. It’s too late to start telling the truth and he’d have no fucking clue how to go about doing it. “How was day one?”

“Ughhhhhh,” Luke groans into the phone. “Awesome. Exhausting, but awesome. It’s gonna totally kick my ass this whole summer but I think it’s gonna be worth it. I’m…..uh, well. I’m working at a local senator’s office?”

“Wow,” Kent says, because shit, that’s a really big thing. He doesn’t know _anything_ about it but he still knows enough to know that that’s a really big thing. “Congratulations.”

“Not to brag or anything, you know,” Luke says, and then he laughs, again. Christ. “Sorry, I know we’ve sort of been….playing the personal details close to the chest, but it’s pretty cool and maybe I want to impress you, just a little, don’t make a big deal out of it.”

Kent flops back into his bed, and thinks _hey, so I’m kind of the best player in the NHL right now, what do you think about that?_

Except, he can’t say that either.

He blows out a breath, and turns to lay on his side. Five years, he’s lived in this apartment, and in all of those years, he’s never brought a guy back to his place. He’s never had another man in his bed. But lying here, with Luke’s voice in his ear, he can pretend, a little. It feels good, just to imagine, just for now.

“Well,” Kent murmurs. “I’m impressed. Tell me all about it and don’t skimp on the details of what you wore today. That’s the most important part.”

Luke snorts. “Shallow much?”

“I’m a simple man, Luke,” Kent says. “Take it or leave it.”

Luke hums, somehow sounding so near even though of course he’s a couple of states away. “Guess I’ll have to take you, then.”

Kent turns and presses a smile into the crease of his pillow. “Guess you will.”

 

 

\\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_

 

_[9:05 PM Jack] Hey, can we talk? I’d like to grab a coffee or something before the series starts._

_[Message Deleted]_

 

 

\\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_

 

_[10:07 PM Luke] So what do you think about this suit -- shirt on or off?_

_[picture attached: a mirror selfie of Luke, with his suit jacket and pants on but no shirt]_

_[10:09 PM Clark] jesus christ_

_[10:10 PM Clark] off. definitely off._

_[10:12 PM Luke] Hmmmm I thought so._

_[10:13 PM Clark] asshole._

 

 

**STANLEY CUP FINALS**

_[7:36 AM Mel] yo did you see that zimmermann interview yet_

_[7:38 AM Kent] ugh no. hit me w/ it._

_[7:46 AM Mel] a highlight 4 you:_

_“Yeah, uh….we were good friends in the Q, Parse is a good guy. We’ve grown apart, of course, but that’s just a natural part of growing up. It’s not a big deal or anything, though, like everyone wants it to be. I wish him nothing but luck moving forward. Well, heh. Not too much luck, though, eh?”_

_[7:48 AM Kent] haha whatever_

_[7:50 AM Mel] that’s it?_

_[7:51 AM Kent] honestly? yeah._

_[7:53 AM Mel] proud of u, hot shot [kiss emoji]_

_[7:55 AM Kent] fuck off_

 

 

\\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_

 

The Falconers clinch the Eastern Conference Final in seven games and with Jack leading the post-season with 24 points to Kent’s paltry 18, every hockey blog from Deadspin to Puck Daddy is talking about how it’s finally gonna be the Falconers’ year. Finally gonna be Jack Zimmermann’s year.

It makes for a good story, Kent guesses. The prodigal son, the party boy with a legacy who fucked it all up, gets himself reborn as an Ivy League darling with an artsy Instagram and an aw shucks attitude, and takes the warm, good-hearted expansion team all the way to their first big show in just two seasons. And to top it all off, he gets to beat the very player who snagged the first draft pick right out from under his nose, all those years ago.

Typical hockey: the narrative always wins.

So, Kent turns every media notification off on his phone, and closes every article that gets sent his way. He doesn’t want to hear it. Doesn’t want to think about what it all means, and what people will say if he loses, or if he wins, or if the world ends tomorrow, and no one wins the Cup this year afterall.

Right now, he just wants to play. Everything else, Kent’ll deal with later.

 

 

\\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_

 

A Stanley Cup Final game one can go a lot of ways -- it can go cautious, two nervous teams feeling each other out and picking out holes to prick into the other team’s defense. It can just be all around a total shitshow because everyone out there on the ice is dead tired and doing their best to pretend like they aren’t. Or it can be brutal.

This game one? This game one is _brutal_.

Mashkov picks a fight with Mads five minutes in, and the whole fucking thing is a scrap from that moment forward. There are three fights and more power plays than Kent can fucking keep track of, and then, at the end of it all, they go to OT with the score at a grueling, painful 1-1. The Aces home crowd is roaring its anger and its exhilaration and if everyone’s honest, their excitement, because this shit, this is _exactly_ why people go to the Cup Finals.

“Shit,” Jeff mutters under his breath next to Kent on the bench. “Shit shit shit.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Kent says, around his mouth guard. He re-centers it, and smacks Jeff in the arm with his stick. “Get a hold of yourself, Wilson. It’s almost time for a line change.”

“You shut the fuck up,” Jeff says, but they’re both already standing, both already ready to vault themselves over the sides and onto the ice.

Except, it doesn’t matter. There’s a commotion on the other end of the ice, the home fans start booing, and the Falconers’ pile into each other, a wave of white away jerseys crushed into the side of the boards in celebration.

Goal: Jack Zimmermann, unassisted, because the Aces defense was fucking _nowhere_ , apparently.

“Well, shit,” Kent says. Jeff smacks him in the arm.

 

 

\\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_

 

"Uh, hey, Parse? Can I talk to you for a second?"

Kent drops his head down, and then raises it just as fast. Of course. Jack _would_ pick this moment to try to talk to him. Now, when he’s just had to spend thirty minutes trying to explain to the media what went wrong, and what it all means, and how they’ll bounce back in game two, no problem. _No, Pierre, I’m not worried about the Aces defense….we’ll work hard and we’ll practice hard, and we’ll do better next time._ It’s all the standard bullshit.

And now, this.

"Sure, man," Kent says, unwinding himself from the locker room bench he was crouched on, and following Jack out into the hallway.

Jack shifts from foot to foot, and looms over Kent in a way that he's pretty sure he used to find attractive. Now, he just feels small and put on the spot.

"You, uh," Jack starts. "You didn't respond to my text."

Kent raises both eyebrows, and Jack takes a step back, winces. _Good_ , Kent thinks, with no small amount of viciousness. Jack should feel real fucking ridiculous for that one.

"I've got a lot going on, man," Kent says. "I didn't get around to it."

Like there wasn't a time when Kent would've dropped his stick in the middle of a game and skated right off the ice if it meant that there was a text from Jack waiting for him. Christ, but it embarrasses him to even think it.

Jack blows out a breath, crossing both arms over his broad chest. "Why are you doing that?"

"Doing what, Jack?" Kent says, staring blankly at a spot on the wall somewhere behind Jack's head.

"Why are you talking to me like you don't even know me?" Jack’s voice is some mixture of hurt and accusatory, and that’s the sickest fucking thing, that even now, Kent can’t help the twinge in his chest, the small part of him that wants to say yeah, sure, let’s get dinner. Let’s talk about this, for once.

Kent shakes his head, snaps back into focus. "Because I don't, Jack. You wanted us to be strangers, and now we are. It's a little late to wind back the clock on that one, huh?"

Jack’s face shutters with a forced blankness. He takes another step back, and if that’s not just Jack Zimmermann in a nutshell: always out of reach. "If that's what you want."

If that's what he wants.

Kent wants to be seventeen again, waking up on that shitty, lumpy pull out couch in his billet family's basement with Jack curled around him, snoring like a fucking freight train. Wants to go back to a time when he felt like he had something special; when he felt like there was someone who would always be there, right next to him. Warmth at his back, and an arm snaked around his middle.

But it's been a long time since Jack made him feel like that.

Now, Kent looks up at Jack and he doesn't even know Jack well enough to like him anymore.

Now, Kent is just tired. He's already tired of this conversation; can't imagine doing it again, can't imagine sitting across from Jack at dinner for a full hour or two and walking away mostly unscathed.

"Yeah, Jack," Kent says. "That's what I want."

Kent turns to walk back into the locker room, but stops, smacking one hand against the door frame. "I'd wish you good luck next time, but you're gonna lose."

Jack doesn't say anything.

That's okay; Kent wasn't exactly expecting an answer.

 

 

\\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_

 

 

> _[12:06 AM Clark]_
> 
> _u ever have 2 work w/ an ex?_
> 
> _[12:08 AM Luke] Thank God, no. Why, do you? Are you…..are you okay?_
> 
> _[12:10 AM Clark] ughhhhh. i’m ok, thnx. just sick of having 2 deal w/ it. everything about him is a huge pain in the ass._
> 
> _[12:12 AM Luke] Is there, uh, something still there?_
> 
> _[12:15 AM Clark] jesus christ_
> 
> _[12:17 AM Clark] no, really really no. which is weird? bc i guess i always kinda thought there wld be and it’s like, surprising that there’s not but also. wow, a huge relief._
> 
> _[12:18 AM Clark] anyways, sorry, this was mega uncool of me to bring up. like. hey, bro. way 2 douche up the party._
> 
> _[12:20 AM Luke] Hahaha, I mean. I don’t expect every guy I date to not have a past, you know? It’s awkward, sure, but life is awkward._
> 
> _[12:25 AM Clark] that’s poetic as fuck. also, thanks._
> 
> _[12:28 AM Luke] But if you need reminding about how over this guy you are, can I interest you in another shirtless selfie of my fine ass abs?_
> 
> _[12:30 AM Clark] what do u think_

 

 

\\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_

 

The Aces take games two and three, and so Kent sleeps less and he skates more, and he sees the bags under his eyes grow and grow, all while his facial hair gets worse with each passing day. He gets really good at taking strategically attractive selfies that reveal nothing that could actually identify him and deletes just about every text that comes to his phone that’s not from the two people outside of his team that he actually talks to on a regular basis. Deletes the mandatory once-a-year Stanley Cup Playoffs text from his mom, who doesn’t really know what to say to him anymore, and deletes texts from his dad, who never really knew what to say to him in the first place.

He never gets another text from Jack, and he feels strangely, selfishly grateful for that, that Jack actually knew to take a hint and walk away. Kent’s life would’ve been a lot easier if he could’ve figured out how to do exactly that, seven years ago, but he guesses it makes sense. Out of the two of them, Jack was always better at knowing when to cut out and leave.

He ignores the media. Wakes up every day, and texts Luke and Mel, and focuses on the next day, the next game, the next faceoff, just like he’s always done.

Except this time, it’s different. This time, _he_ feels different.

 

\\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_

 

 

 

> _[3:09 PM Clark]_
> 
> _think i might have 2 take a page out of ur book soon and check out those bath bombs. take a nice long bath some time soon and maybe fuckin fall asleep in it or smthn_
> 
> _[3:10 PM Clark] u picturing it?_
> 
> _[3:13 PM Luke] I’M IN A MEETING_
> 
> _[3:15 PM Clark] u had that coming :P_
> 
> _[3:58 PM Luke] Yeah, I really did. Don’t worry, I ain’t mad._
> 
> _[3:59 PM Luke] PS: Don’t drown._

 

 

\\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_

 

When it happens, it happens fast. The shitty thing is, it’s just a stupid fucking accident. The game is clean right up until Yarpov takes an extra spin out of the ref’s way, tripping Jack up in the process, and sending Jack tumbling straight down onto the ice, hands first. The whole thing must’ve taken Jack by surprise, Kent guesses, because that’s the only explanation for the way he falls to the ice with a dull thud.

On any other day, in the exact same scenario, Jack would’ve thrown up his forearms to try and prevent injury to his wrists.

Today, though. Today, Jack does the exact opposite of what he’s supposed to do, and Kent watches it all unfold from the bench, at top speed, heart beating real fast and lips thinning in shock.

There’s a lot of injuries that can get pushed aside or ignored for the Cup. Lies you can tell and aches that you can dull or tape up or push through to get to the end, bloodied and bruised but victorious, anyways.

But you can’t hold a hockey stick with a broken wrist. Everyone knows that.

 

 

\\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_

 

Here’s the thing about Kent and Jack: they were idiots. They still are, probably, but they were even bigger idiots when they were teenagers. That’s pretty much how it goes, being a teenager.

And sure, maybe they should’ve talked about it. And sure, Kent shouldn’t have just assumed that what they were, what they had, meant as much to Jack as it did to him.

Because as it turns out, it didn’t mean all that much to Jack in the end, and that wound bled and ached for a long, long time before Kent finally figured out how to start closing it up. A lot of ugly shit went into that process, and yeah, there were days when he hated Jack, really, truly hated him in a way that felt like too much, like Kent’s skin couldn’t hold it all in. Days when all he wanted was for Jack to finally feel as shitty as he made Kent feel.

Now, well. Now, he’s finding that he still wants Jack to be okay, even if Kent doesn’t really want to have anything much to do with him anymore.

He guesses that’s as good as they’re ever gonna get, probably.

The Falconers win game four, anyways, and Kent skips out on team breakfast the next morning.

He’s not hungry at all.

 

 

\\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_

 

 

 

> _[9:07 AM Kent] stephanie woo in nyc, upper west side. best physical therapist i’ve ever had._

Kent drops his phone to the pillow next to him, and exhales. There’s no blueprint for this, for any of this. He keeps hoping that one day, he’ll wake up and know exactly what to do and what to say, how to map out the rest of his life and do it all right. Jack can do whatever he wants with that information -- it can help him, or he can ignore it. Whatever. Kent’s done his best, today.

Shit, this blows.

He picks up the phone again, and presses call.

“Hey,” Luke says, and then, “shit, you dumb mutt, will you cut it the hell out, sorry, sorry, I gave my dog a bath and now she’s wreaking havoc on my Harry Potter collection. What’s up?”

Kent sinks back into the pillows, and shrugs, forgetting that Luke can’t see him. “Nothing much. Just wanted to talk to you, is all.”

“You want to hear about how I sacrificed every last shred of my dignity to chase around a twelve year old dog with arthritis just to give her a bath?” Luke says, laughing, probably mostly at himself, and some of the tension in Kent’s shoulders loosens, just a little.

“Yeah,” Kent says. “That’s exactly what I want to hear.”

 

 

\\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_

 

_[11:45 AM Jack] Thanks._

_[12:00 PM Kent] no prob._

 

 

\\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_

 

Their flight lands in Providence for game five, and Kent's reaching for his phone before the plane's captain can say anything. He turns airplane mode off, and taps his phone against his knee impatiently, willing his LTE to slowly wake back up and load all of the messages he's missed.

Next to him, Jeff slowly lowers his giant Dr Dre headphones, and raises an eyebrow. "You're a little eager. Texting anyone special?"

Kent pauses, considering. This isn't the first time Jeff's cracked open the door for him and slipped in an invitation to talk about it. Maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, to finally pry that door all the way open and give it a try. It's worked out for him okay, so far. This whole trying new things schtick.

So Kent pastes on a toothy grin, and tries to calm the nerves in his stomach. "Yeah. Your dad."

Jeff laughs. "Fuck off. My dad would never fuck around with some weedy white boy. It's Denzel or bust."

The tight knot in the pit of his stomach eases up, just a little. Kent huffs. "It's a little weird how easily you came out with that."

Jeff holds up both hands. "Hey, man. Wine flows freely at my family Thanksgivings."

Jeff unbuckles his seatbelt, and leans over, lowering his voice. "Seriously, bro. Is there....uh, is there someone?"

Kent thumbs open his phone, and can't stop the thrill that runs through him at the sight of his notifications. Luke is working at his internship today but it must be a slow day, because Kent's got about 15 unread text messages about everything from "ughhh I miss my dog why am I here" to "I think the office manager wants to set me up with her daughter HELP" to "I've spent the last ten minutes thinking about the slope of your shoulders, and how I'd like to leave a mark there so thanks for getting me through this day."

Kent flushes at the last one, and pockets his phone. "Yeah, I. I don't know. Sort of."

Jeff nods. "Cool. I wouldn't -- it just, it seems like he's good for you, is all."

"You -- you what?" Kent says, all but sputtering, because what the hell. Where did that come from?

“Sorry, dude, I didn’t….I just thought. You know it’s like, chill with me, right?” Jeff says, all at once, in a rush. “Just. Just so we’re clear. It’s all chill and I won’t say shit to anyone. I mean it.”

Kent blows out a breath. “I know. Thanks. I mean, I just assumed that you….anyways, uh. It’s fine, it’s just….weird. To hear you say something about it, is all.”

He and Jeff just don't say shit like that to each other. None of them do.

Which means, what? That it had to have been real fucking noticeable for Jeff to bother saying it.

And Kent...Kent doesn't know what to do with that. He hasn't really thought about it, what he's doing with Luke. They're just talking, he's thought. Yeah, it's flirtatious and yeah, it's gone on for a while, but it's not like there's been any reason to stop. He hasn't thought about any measurable difference in his life in the before and after Luke. Didn't think it was enough for anyone to pay attention to, let alone anyone on the team.

“Dude, don’t like…..don’t freak out about it, okay? I just thought….I don’t know, that’s the kind of thing people like to hear. I thought you should hear it, in case there’s no one else around to say it,” Jeff says, and he’s a good guy, Jeff. One of Kent’s best friends on the team, really.

There’s nothing nasty in the way he’s looking at Kent now, gaze calm and steady, like this is a conversation they have all of the time. Like they live the kinds of lives where this is a conversation that Kent can have, if he wants.

Kent swallows hard, and for the first time in a long time, doesn't have any kind of easy, canned response to fall back on. Closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath, and barely registers the pat on the shoulder that Jeff gives him when he stands up.

The rest of the team starts to file out of the plane, so Kent shakes himself, and gets up and gets moving. Mads is yelling about something and Yarpov is yelling something back in that deep, gruff tone of his, but whatever it is, Kent misses it.

He didn't think anyone would notice. He didn't think there was enough going on between him and Luke to notice. They haven't even met in person. That's not. That's nothing, that's supposed to be nothing.

Kent slumps down into the front seat of the bus that the Aces chartered for the day, and bangs his head backwards against the headrest.

Well.

Fuck.

 

\\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_

 

 

_[3:45 PM Luke] Hey, you want to talk some time tonight? I can call._

_[8:07 PM Luke] It’s cool if you’re busy and all. We’ll catch up later._

 

 

\\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_

 

Jack Zimmermann watches the puck drop on game seven from the stands, with a cast on his wrist and a small blonde boy fussing over him in front of the entire fucking world, like he’s got absolutely no common sense. But right now, that’s not important.

Kent’s been here before. And after all, win or lose, it’s just one more game. But whatever gut instinct that Kent’s ever relied on, the weight in the pit of his stomach that lets him know what happens next, has gone and flown the fucking coop. He doesn’t know what comes next. No one knows what comes next.

The narrative got well and truly fucked. So, at least there that.

Kent’s got five unanswered text messages from Luke burning a hole in the pocket of his jacket pocket, but that’s all the way back in the locker room, and right now, it’s a separate fucking problem altogether.

Right now, he has to figure out why his defense is falling apart and why he can’t seem to get anywhere near the net. Fucking Mashkov is always such a huge fucking pain in the ass.

“There a good reason for why you haven’t gotten off a single fucking shot yet, huh, Parser?” Mads snarls, throwing himself down onto the bench next to Kent. “It’s game fucking seven, asshole.”

“Mads,” Kent says, evenly, “talk to me like that again and I’ll shove my skates down your throat blade first.”

Mads just laughs, because there’s something well and truly wrong with him, but Kent’s already vaulting over the side onto the ice, so it doesn’t matter, anyways.

He’s got a game to win.

 

\\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_

 

 

(They lose, in regulation, by two fucking goals. They lose, and Kent watches another team lift the Cup, watches Jack trace the nickel rim of it with his hands, surrounded by screaming teammates, and frown, softly.

They lose, and mostly, Kent just feels empty. Another problem to add onto his already growing pile).

 

 

\\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_

 

_[11:16 PM Luke] Hey, uh….look, I don’t want to be that guy. If you don’t want to talk anymore, you don’t want to talk anymore. But it’s shitty to just ghost like this._

 

 

\\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_

 

Somewhere between aged 15, when Kent’s dad caught him making out with the boy who lived two doors down on their living room couch, and didn’t say anything, just glared and glared, and never really stopped, and aged 16, when Kent got drafted into the Q, he made a deal with himself.

He would find a way to make it work. Hockey, being gay, the whole big messy confusion of it. He’d train hard and he’d play hard, and he would never pull any of that crap that he’s heard guys in his position do sometimes, he’d never pretend to be straight or lead a girl on, because as long as he was as good as he knew he could be, no one would give a shit about anything else, in the end.

It sounds easy, when you’re that young.

Somewhere along the way, Kent stopped trying to make it work. Told himself he was waiting for Jack, which was mostly bullshit, probably, because Jack isn’t the one who took a pen and drew a clear, severe line down the middle of Kent’s life. Kent did that, and he did it willingly, over and over again, season after season. He wants to get rid of that line, or at least fudge it, a little, but at the same time -- at the same time, he likes that line. He’s comfortable with it.

He doesn’t have a fucking clue what he’d do without it.

 

 

\\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_

 

“So, I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me that you’ve spent the past week on an alien planet with no cell reception, huh?”

Kent collapses into his couch, and barely suppresses a groan. Christ. He doesn’t think there’s a single inch of him that’s not sore right now. “No, I’m just an asshole,” Kent says, because he might as well be as honest as he can be, here. “I’m sorry. I, uh….I did a thing to you that I really hated when it was done to me, and that was….you were right. It was shitty.”

“Thanks,” Luke says, and there’s a wariness to his voice that Kent hates. “What’s….going on?”

“I, uh…..” Kent sighs, and rubs one hand across his forehead. The longer they talk, the higher the chance that Kent loses his mind, and decides it’s a good idea to keep doing this, when it’s not. It’s not, because he already knows he’s not going to say yes to a date. Already knows that he can’t sit down in front of Luke, and explain himself, can’t detangle the mess that is his life for this nice, attractive guy, and see where it goes from there. “I like you, Luke. But I don’t think I’m ready for what, uh….for what liking you means. My dating history, and uh….my shit is complicated, I guess.”

Luke takes in a breath, and then lets it out. He’s silent, for a beat longer than Kent’s comfortable with, and then says, “Do you know when you might….be ready?”

Kent laughs, but nothing about this is funny. Jesus, could he feel like more of a dick right now. “I have no fucking clue. I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” Luke says. “This really fucking sucks.”

“Yeah,” Kent says. “I know. I’m -- “

“Don’t fucking apologize again,” Luke says, sounding exasperated, and it’s a shock, because Kent doesn’t think that he’s ever heard Luke swear, like, ever, and now he’s done it twice in less than a minute. “It’s, you’re….just...this sucks. You kind of suck, for doing it. But stop apologizing.”

“Okay,” Kent says. “Okay.”

“Take care of yourself, Clark,” Luke says, and then hangs up.

 

 

 

**OFF-SEASON**

_[9:16 PM Kent] can u come over?_

_[9:20 PM Mel] Yeah, I’m free. Everything okay?_

_[9:22 PM Kent] i just bought 6 bath bombs online from lush_

_[9:23 PM Kent] btw we’re watching romeo + juliet no fuckn arguments_

_[9:24 PM Mel] …...I’ll be right there_

 

 

\\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_ \\_

 

Kent answers the front door in a threadbare hoodie, a bottle of wine in each hand, and slumps against the door jamb. He’s pretty aware of how pathetic he looks. He’s also pretty sure that right now, he doesn’t give a shit.

"Hey," Kent grunts. "I'm a massive fuck up."

"I think we all are," Mel says. "What’s going on?”

Within minutes, Kent's sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of his couch, nursing a glass of wine. He knows he made a good call, texting Mel. He hates drinking alone and god knows he would've wound up drinking no matter what.

Mel flops down to the floor next to him, and raises her eyebrows. "You wanna spill, bro, or do you wanna get straight to the movie?"

Kent scratches at the side of his jaw, and sighs. "Been talking to this guy on Tinder for a while."

Mel hums. "How long's a while?"

"Couple of months."

She winces, and Kent feels gratified that he doesn't have to say any more, that she can put together the rest of the pieces herself. "You really don't do casual well, huh?"

Kent laughs, but it comes out hollow. "Apparently not."

"Hey," Mel says. "That's not a bad thing to learn about yourself."

"If the next words out of your mouth are 'growing experience', I will throw up on you."

Meg just holds out her hands in surrender. “So, what happened?”

Kent takes a huge sip of his wine, and then sets the glass down next to him on the floor. “I don’t know, uh. I guess….it reached the point where it felt like I had to do something about it. Something real. And shit, man, I don’t know. It didn’t….it didn’t feel right, all the way.” Kent huffs, and then picks up his wine glass again because really, who was he kidding. “It’s not him. Luke, uh. His name is Luke and he’s…..way less of a shitshow than I am. He’s nice. It was….it felt normal, you know?”

“Yeah,” Mel says, and there’s something so painfully aware and sad and just a little bit pitying in the way that she says it, that for a second, Kent really does almost throw up. “I get that.”

Kent shakes himself. "It just sucks, is all. I wish I could've just....gotten over myself."

Mel rolls her eyes, reaching across him to grab the wine bottle and refill her glass, and then his. "Yeah, because that's how that works."

"Mads has a new girlfriend," Kent whines, dropping his head down to Mel's shoulder. "How does Mads have a new girlfriend when I haven't gotten laid in like, five years."

"Straight girls have low standards," Mel says. "It's not their fault, society conditions them that way."

Kent groans, but doesn't say anything. He's just finding things to bitch about, at this point. He could whine all night long, and still have more to whine about, in the morning, he's sure.

"Hey," Kent mumbles into Mel's shoulder. "Did you ever apply for that job?"

"Yeah, actually," Mel says. "Uh, last night, I sent it in."

Kent pushes off from her shoulder. "Shut the fuck up. And you didn't say anything?"

"You were being all weird and moody," Mel says. She shrugs, feigning unconcern as she piles her long black hair on top of her head, and secures it with a tie. "It's no biggie," she says, as if it didn't take her over two months to do it.

"Huh," Kent says, and then, "you know, I already deleted Tinder off my phone. I don't have the pics anymore."

Mel pulls a pillow off the couch, and tries to smack Kent in the head with it, but he dodges it, and it goes sailing across the room, narrowly missing the hallway lamp. "You asshole. I'm gonna drink all your wine tonight."

"Not if I drink it first," Kent says. "Hey. Good luck, man."

Mel smiles into the lip of her wine glass, small and pleased, suddenly looking a whole lot softer and younger than Kent's used to seeing her. "Thanks, Parser. I, uh. I have a good feeling about it, you know?"

"Yeah," Kent says, because yeah, he knows a thing or two about flying by on equal parts instinct and determination. That's pretty much his whole life, right there.

And yeah, some of it can be pretty shitty, but a lot of it -- a lot of it is pretty okay, actually.

Kent leans over, and flicks Mel in the ear. "Alright, now, can we watch the movie already?"

"Ugh, if we must," Mel says, to be a jerk, like she doesn't have the hugest crush on Claire Danes anyways, and then presses play.

Kent props his foot up on a pillow, pours himself another glass of wine, because at this point, the course is already set: they’re probably gonna wind up getting a little messy tonight and they’re definitely gonna hate themselves for it tomorrow. Still, for the first time since Luke hung up on him, Kent starts to feel okay.

Because sure, this whole thing sucks and he feels sucky about it, and he probably will, for a while.

But it doesn't feel like it'll suck forever. He doesn't need a map or directions to tell him that he can get through this, that this ache in the pit of his stomach isn't permanent.

And that's new. That's better.

 

 

 

**SIX MONTHS LATER**

It’s a couple days before Thanksgiving, and there’s a miraculous three day break in between games when Sophie from PR gets it into her head that no one’s gonna have any real time off because instead, they’re going to be shooting a charity calendar for a local Las Vegas sports non-profit. They’re almost at December and there’s barely going to be any time to breathe, once they get to December.

It makes sense, but that doesn’t stop half the team from bitching about it whenever Sophie’s back is turned.

But their next few games are at home, and anyways, Kent’s spending Thanksgiving with Mel and her grandmother in Vegas because “my abuela wants to get you drunk and beat you at card games again,” so right now, he’s got nothing to complain about.

Besides, in a weird sort of way, he’s kind of grown to love this shit. It’s annoying, sometimes, but mostly, it’s pretty easy and straightforward.

Across the wide, open room that was chosen for the shoot, Kent watches Keeley and Yarpov grimace at being posed and re-arranged, and gives them both a thumbs up, laughing when Yarpov turns red in the face.

“Hey you, okay, so you’ve already been to hair and makeup -- which one are you again?” A guy’s voice says to Kent’s left, coming up next to him, a notebook in one hand and a camera in the other.

Kent starts, and turns to face the guy. He’s a little taller than Kent, but not by much. He’s wearing thick, plastic glasses, and a massive orange sweater, probably because the heat in this room is barely working, and oh shit, he’s _cute_.

Kent jams his hands into the pockets of his black jeans, and rocks back onto the balls of his feet. “Uh, not yet, no.”

“Oh, uhh……” The guy starts to turn about as red in the face as Kent already knows he is at the tip of his ears. Kent can’t help himself, there’s a wide, reflexive grin tugging at the corner of his lips, and Kent’s just not a nice enough man to care to try and stop it.

Kent leans in, and drops his voice to a faux confidential whisper. “Don’t worry about it. I just shower more than the rest of them, is all.”

The guy laughs, in spite of himself, moving his small black notebook in front of his mouth to try and cover up an ungainly snort. Jesus, that’s adorable. “Yeah, uh….I believe it.”

“Oh good, you’ve met,” Sophie says, coming up behind Kent and placing a finely-manicured hand on his shoulder, a gesture universally understood to mean, _I’m about to ask you for a favor and you definitely can’t say no._ “My mother-in-law is having some sort of sweet potato crisis that I have to take care of, can you meet with Oliver to go over the proofs tomorrow, just to make sure everything looks okay?”

Kent raises an eyebrow. “Me? Seriously?”

“We’re running on a pre-holiday skeleton crew right now, Parson,” Sophie says, clucking. “Besides, you’ve got a good eye. I trust you.”

That, and her favorite intern flew back to Florida for the holidays already, but right now, Kent’s not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth. Sophie’s already walking away, phone attached to her ear and barking orders to Mel, when Kent turns back to the guy. Oliver. His name is Oliver.

“So, uh….tomorrow?” Kent says, and then holds out a hand to shake. “I’m Kent, by the way.”

Oliver fumbles to tuck his notebook between his arm and his body so that he can shake Kent’s hand, and when he does, the hem of his sweater dips down just enough to show off the black ink of a tattoo curling its way beneath the wool fabric. The back of Kent’s mouth goes very dry, very quickly. Huh. So, that’s new.

Oliver’s hand is warm, and he holds on just a little bit longer than you’re supposed to, with a handshake. It’s weird, and more than a little surprising, this sudden swoop in the pit of Kent’s stomach that says, _okay. Why not. Let’s see what happens next._

Oliver flushes, and finally lets go of Kent’s hand. “Yeah, uh, tomorrow -- you can come to my office, I’ll give you the address. Any time in the afternoon should work.”

“Cool,” Kent says. He doesn’t think he’s stopped smiling once, this whole time. “I’m looking forward to it.”


End file.
